This is a very small book, I think Murdoch’s shortest? but my goodness, it packs a lot of Murdochian stuff in, almost like a distilled Greatest Hits (a bit reminiscent of “Under the Net” which I likened to an overture back in November). My copy is now festooned with post-it tabs so I hope I can make sense of my thoughts on this one. What I will say is that I kept thinking as I read it, “This is either a masterful portrayal of the complexities of family life and addiction or it’s a load of rows over sex and infidelity with a dodgy uncle thrown into the mix”. Maybe in someone else’s hands, it would be the latter, but we’re safe with Iris, aren’t we?

Iris Murdoch – “The Italian Girl”

(27 February 2018)

Well, if we’re looking for people chasing other people in white dresses through damp and dark woods, we’ve got them in bundles here, haven’t we (does this make up for the one book that missed one of these chases?) It’s even on the front of the Vintage reprint! Of course, we open with a classic return scene, almost another fairy tale, like “The Unicorn”, and indeed Edmund is requested by Isabel to be the healer in the household, surrounded by overgrown vegetation like Sleeping Beauty’s castle, reminding us of the talk of seven years that have passed in that previous book.

A note on the re-reading aspect: how had I forgotten that this is one of the male first-person narrator novels? I’m not sure IM loves Edmund as much as the narrators of “Under The Net”, “The Black Prince” and “The Sea, The Sea” (and, of course, “The Philosopher’s Pupil” – how I long to reach that one again) but he’s certainly a dry and seemingly self-aware but foolish chap, maybe reminding us of Martin Lynch-Gibbon from “A Severed Head”.

Those chases: Edmund starts out following his own dewy footsteps on the lawn. Then he follows Flora to the pool, observing the different colours in her pale skirt as they go. This pale dress appears and disappears among the trees in a very familiar way. Only a few pages later and he’s chasing Elsa through the rather revoltingly wormy lawn: “I seemed to see the fleeing figure somewhere in front of me”. He finally follows Flora on her final flight (in the rain, by the pools), and then Maggie back again, although he catches up with and carries her – this is obviously important.

Like in “The Unicorn” and indeed “A Severed Head” we are given a load of portents and warnings early on, in Isabel’s cluttered room that is different from the rest of the house particularly, which is full of images of overpowering fire. In fact, the large garden is there because there was previously a large house which had been destroyed by fire, and Lydia is described as having been obsessed with the fear of a fire, which is why Isabel has her big open fireplace in the first place.

Who is the enchanter and who the saint? Dead Lydia is said several times to be the only person who can control somebody (Flora, Otto …) and has a peculiar hold over Edmund and Otto even after she’s passed. Was Edmund’s father, the artist, a saint as well? He’s described thus: “Your father is not a good man, he is merely a timid man with unworldly tastes” (p. 17) and held in contempt, which usually indicates a saint. Isabel says of Edmund, “You lead a simple good life. You help people. Oh, I know about it. I wonder if you think it’s easy to be like that” although Edmund immediately counters that he’s selfish, so maybe he’s just filling a space in her pageant of types. Again, in this conversation he mentions that his father was a much “finer” man than he, so maybe in this novel both the enchanter and the saint are dead? Maggie also says Edmunds’s good, though, again countered by him saying that she is (and she’s quiet as a mouse, often a sign of someone good yet existing almost as a non-presence. Edmund talks about having been captured by magicians and being enchanted in the summer house when he misses his breakfast with Flora, but this sounds like an excuse to me, although then Otto talks about the siblings as being fairies or demons when he claims to have cast them out.

Attention comes up again, when Otto and David tiptoe around each other in the hospital, treating each other with “a gentleness, a tenderness almost, which in the midst of such grief on both sides seemed a miracle of attention” (p. 147) and we have Isabel’s moment of clarity in the hotel room where she sees the tabby cat in the garden when normally she wouldn’t have seen it. She has grown and changed and has new life to begin, unlike many of IM’s previous characters who just seem to travel the path they have been given; although she does describe life in the house as a “merry-go-round” with the implication that you can’t get off it. Mind you, Edmund also feels trapped “Some pattern too strong for me was taking me away, curving away back to the old lonely places” (p. 166) and then with a huge effort frees himself.

There’s humour again, just touches but they do raise a smile: I loved this description of the house from near the beginning, which recalls the furniture plans in “An Unofficial Rose”:

The dim electric light revealed the big landing, the oak chest and the big fern which never grew but never died either, the fine but entirely threadbare Shiraz rug, the picture which might have been by Constable but wasn’t which my father had got at a sale at a price for which my mother never forgave him … (p. 15)

There are Otto’s ridiculous dreams, with telephone dials turning into all manner of things, too, and Otto is described in a savagely funny way as like a gorilla, and needing to ingest similar amounts of foliage.

As to our other themes, Flora has the red hair this time; Maggie has a long bun, which seems odd, but unravelling buns are a theme and of course she gets it chopped off, another common occurrence. Isabel’s hair seems odd and complicated and adds to her strange charms, seeming to grow and acquire extra bits out of nowhere. Elsa also had flat metallic hanks of hair which someone else had in another novel – anyone remember? And she is the classic artificial woman who IM often seems to dislike, in her case revoltingly grubby and greasy. Otto has the big face and cherub-gone-bad features but might be the most revolting specimen we encounter in the oeuvre, and David Levkin is another prancing, merry Jamesie but with a darker side, perhaps.

Doublings are found in the two sets of siblings, in Edmund’s two mothers (Lydia and the stream of Italian girls). In a memorable description, we find that Otto is a wet-lipped man and Edmund a dry-lipped man. Otto and then Flora cry in front of Edmund and so indeed does Isabel. Edmund bangs on the summer house door and then Flora’s door. Edmund is expected to heal the household but only heals the cracked blocks of wood – and then I think leaves them there. He encounters Isabel and then David stripped to the waist in another uncomfortable couple of scenes. Water is there early on in the diverted stream in the garden and then of course the pool and waterfall that Flora climbs to escape. Again, some of the most beautiful descriptions are of this water. IM’s dislike of psychoanalysts slips through in a statement of Edmund’s:

My relations with women always followed a certain disastrous and finally familiar pattern. I did not need a psychoanalyst to tell me why: nor did it occur to me to seek the aid of one of those modern necromancers. I preferred to suffer the thing that I was. (p. 24)

There are some ivory water buffalo in Isabel’s room which seem the only nod to Chinese or Japanese art, although they’re usually linked to wise people, which I’m not sure she is.

In other nods to the other novels, Maggie loses (or “loses”) her shoes in the mud, recalling Marian’s adventure in the bog in “The Unicorn”. The chases under the trees, of course, echo most of the books and Edmund’s fawning over Flora remind us uncomfortably of Randall and Miranda in “An Unofficial Rose”. He is creepy, isn’t he, or are we just reading this with a modern mind: “All that came into my mind was the image of Flora. How exceedingly pretty she had become. I wondered how old she was” (p. 27). Isabel’s display of herself to Edmund reminds us of Annette’s dress getting ripped open in “The Flight From the Enchanter”.

I’ve just realised there’s no special introduction in this book (which basically means I’ve bought a fancy cover wrapped around the text of the 1980s copy I already had). I wonder why this is!

What would I say in conclusion? Yes, it’s an odd novel and a lot of it a bit distasteful, with gross images of sweaty grubbiness. But there is a way forward and a resolution, and a musing on attention. Is this one even read much any more? I’m not sure. But I did enjoy it.

Please either place your review in the comments, discuss mine or others’, or post a link to your review if you’ve posted it on your own blog, Goodreads, etc. I’d love to know how you’ve got on with this book and if you read it having read others of Murdoch’s novels or this was a reread, I’d love to hear your specific thoughts on those aspects, as well as if it’s your first one!

If you’re catching up or looking at the project as a whole, do take a look at the project page, where I list all the blog posts so far.

Ha – thank you! Even I would say that IM’s not for everyone, and if I was recommending someone to read her books, I wouldn’t necessarily start with this one (The Bell or The Sea, The Sea are better bets).

It is a funny old book, isn’t it – a shame it’s one of the few you’ve got. I think you’ll enjoy the next two more. I haven’t commented on your post yet so as not to put people off, but will keep an eye on it.

I like the image of your book festooned with post-it notes, Liz. That’s how my mind feels after reading this one. I used to think that, in its brevity, it was a sort of key to the rest of Murdoch and, as you’ve pointed out, there are commonalities with other novels; but now I’m not sure what to make of it. I had not reread it in at least 30 years and I was expecting to find it disappointing based on my memory of it. But I found it well worth rereading.

I find it wonderful that in her third novel to employ a male narrator, she has created in the contained and sometimes puritanical Edmund a character so different from the free-spirited Jake in Under the Net or the comfortably bourgeois Martin in A Severed Head. Neither Jake nor Martin was saddled with such heavy family baggage. Martin’s mother, much less recently deceased, does seem to exercise a kind of psychic power over her sons, but she is not the overwhelming and almost evil presence that Lydia seems to be in The Italian Girl.

At one point in SH, Antonia says something about how Martin’s irony will save them all – and I think in some sense it also saves the reader by providing distance. Edmund is a much more (literally) sober narrator and almost totally lacking any sense of irony that could distance him or the reader from the events. Given that he has suddenly thrust himself back into his mother’s world after a long absence, it is not surprising that his emotions are fresh. And we, the readers, are there with him. It’s uncomfortable.

If there is anything to give the reader distance it may be the chapter headings (unusual and possibly unique for Murdoch). What are we to make of them? Sometimes they are thematic or point out a contrast (Otto and Innocence, Flora and Experience); sometimes they are literal (Otto Confesses); and sometimes they seem to indicate an authorial commentary (Edmund Runs to Mother, which is about Maggie). Are these to be considered the author’s titles or Edmund’s titles for his narrative after he has grown through the course of the novel? I prefer to think of them as Murdoch’s framing of the episodes to give perspective.

Although I would rank this as one of her lesser novels, I think one could have quite a long and interesting discussion about it, it is so densely packed. Maybe it even strains against its packaging.

Yes, I didn’t address the chapter headings, did I. I find them odd and I’m sure a whole paper could be written on them alone. I think the book does indeed strain against its packaging and that’s a great image; was she trying to fit too much into a small form, and did she do it better with the later baggy monsters? I’m glad you weren’t disappointed, anyway!

Sorry I am just joining the party at the last minute and I hope I am not too late.
Thank you, Liz; I enjoyed reading your thoughts on this strange novel and thank you also for keeping the census of the hair styles. (Does any woman in Iris Murdoch have difficult or just ordinary hair?)

It is interesting to read the novels chronologically as you see the development and re-working of patterns in the novels. In The Italian Girl there is the similar scenario at the beginning as An Unofficial Rose – the death and funeral of a strong domineering mother – the family dynamic is also similar there is the feral artist eldest son with an unhappy wife whom he ignores and is unfaithful to and a enigmatic, precocious adolescent daughter. Like Randall in An Unofficial Rose, Otto the eldest son has stayed in the family home. Edmund the first person narrator, through whose eyes the story unfolds, lives in London and is the outsider to the household, like Felix the family friend in An Unofficial Rose.. Otto is a stone engraver and like Randall the drinks too much and is in an adulterous relationship: he largely lives apart from the household and physically shares a lot of the characteristics of a gorilla, especially his constant consumption of vegetables. His wife Isabel does not have much to do and spends her time looking beautiful and miserable in an overheated room, whereas Ann in An Unofficial Rose is very busy. Both however seem not to notice that all is not well with their adolescent daughters, like Nan in The Sandcastle. Isabel does not seem to be too concerned when her daughter disappears for several days to have an abortion.

In this novel Murdoch keeps all the action within a confined household, in which everybody seems to be having an affair, and all is chaotic and in conflict. Maggie the Italian servant who is the last of a stream of other Italian ‘girls’ employed to care for Edmund and Otto as children, is absorbed into the situation and although she appears to be the ‘eternally, silent superior servant’ she eventually wields power
which changes the whole balance. Edmund belongs to the world outside and is presented as having a rather dull life in London, but he is trying to find a place of home. But the household is disturbed by David Levkin who has come as an assistant to Otto and his tragic ethereal sister Elsa. They are Russian Jews and bring the sorrows and rootlessness of the émigré to the household.

Like, I think, all of Murdoch, this novel can be read at a number of levels, and I will not even try to start to dissect the psychological issues it presents, and as Peter observes there is a lot of material for thought and discussion. But despite the serious matters it deals with, death, exile, a broken family abortion, tragedy, loss, it is quite playful. I could not help laughing at the scene in chapter 13 in the kitchen when Edmund is having a conversation with Maggie. The reader is aware that Maggie has been washing Otto’s big woollen underwear and it is hanging to dry rail suspended from the ceiling. Edmund is told things which cause him pain and he is ware she knows everything that goes on. He stands up, his ‘body still disturbed and unhappy’ and the ‘leg of one of Otto’s undergarments slapped me damply in the eye’. The absurdity of this prevents the work from being a melodrama.

I was intrigued by the use of chapter titles. While we see the story through the bewildered and confused Edmund, they act as a kind of detached and sardonic commentary. I agree with Peter they do provide a distance and again they are a check on the drama because they are quite flippant – the one where he assaults his niece Flora is called ‘Uncle Edmund in loco parentis: ’ where Elsa sets the house on fire in which she dies is ‘Elsa’s fire dance’. They bring you back down to earth and remind me of early novels like Thackeray’s ‘Vanity Fair’ . A lot of the chapters are like scenes in a play where there is a dialogue between characters which often ends in a revelation or cliffhanger,and you can almost see the curtain go down. Then it goes up with the next chapter, set in a different place with different characters. The ending all resolves itself with everyone going the separate ways: this works because it is similar to a Shakespearean comedy. I agree there is an awful lot packed but all in all, I think it is rather a beautifully made little novel and it is also a rattling good story.

I am not so enthusiatic about next month’s book but will give it a go. That is another good thing about this readalong – it makes me read or re-read the ones I am not roo keen on and perhaps I will find something to change my mind – or re-enforce my prejudices.

Thank you for your thoughts, Maria, and just under the bar on the last day of the month (although I’m only joking, I don’t really mind when people read and review them, but I do like the sense of community when our reviews gather). I love the way you bring out the way the absurd undermines the serious and dramatic; this is a big part of Murdoch’s work, I think. And you’re very right in finding all those parallels with “Unofficial Rose”, too. It is like a Shakespearean comedy in all the comings and goings, yes, and the usual Murdochian dispersal from the closed environment, maybe (like in “The Bell”). I think you’re right about it being quite play-like, too

“The Red and the Green” will be better than you thought it was – there’s more family and farce and relationships and less politics than I thought each time I read it.

Better late than never! I read the book early in the month but put off writing my review as I always do. I again really appreciated reading the reviews of others who are rereading which gave such food for thought and makes me realize you could dissect these novels eternally especially when rereading them over the years. I haven’t heard great things about The Red and the Green but I am intrigued that it is a departure from many of the other novels. I hope to get my copy in a few days.

Ah, brilliant, thank you, and I never mind adding reviews. I’m glad you have appreciated reading other people’s reviews – my reactions to the books have certainly changed over the years and it’s interesting to think about that.

I love your comments about Edward’s characterisation of women into types and about his puritanism, what a great review!

The R and the G is a more minor novel but there’s lots of Murdochian stuff to get your teeth into, and it’s quite a quick read. Having said that, I haven’t started it yet!

The least enjoyable and most problematic of the novels so far. The feeling I had throughout was one of rushed incompleteness, as if Murdoch had intended to work the ingredients several times over, but had run out of time and served up something hastily assembled.

As I said above, this felt like an incomplete novel. The chapter headings, for example, felt like a structural prop which Murdoch might use while drafting but dispense with prior to publication. As Peter points out in his review, these are “unusual and possibly unique for Murdoch”. Their presence felt like she had left exposed some of the machinery of fiction-making.

While, as Bookish Beck points out, the title also sits uneasily, given that the titular character barely features until the end and while she is Italian is not a girl.
One of Murdoch’s great talents is to depict rich individuals, whose flaws are but part of a complex whole. Each of the significant characters in The Italian Girl have their flaws foregrounded – Edmund’s priggery, Isabel’s listlessness, Flora’s adolescent solipsism – with little else to engage or attract the reader. While the depiction of David and Flora Levkin as rootless, unreliable and untrustworthy also felt a little too reliant on old and pernicious stereotypes.

Rather like one of chase scenes in the novel, I felt like I was running to keep pace with a plot that moved with indecent haste ahead of me. Several storylines, such as Flora’s pregnancy (that is all I will say to avoid spoilers) are deal with so rapidly I wanted the author to slow down and unpack the human emotions involved in such decisions, instead of deploying another dialogue-heavy fight scene.

As Jo points out in her review, there are many allusions to other Murdoch novels, such as the enchanting power of the late Lydia and the post-funeral setting. For me, however, these allusions only served to remind me of the heights Murdoch can reach that are certainly missed here.

Thank you for your review and interesting points! It is an oddly dense book and yes, I can see it feels a bit rushed – she certainly has room to stretch out and consider things from different angles, etc., in the later, larger books.